


cold december night

by peterstank



Series: irondad bingo [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Irondad Bingo, arachnoes before hoes, this one is sad bois grab your tissues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21913870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterstank/pseuds/peterstank
Summary: The funny thing about May is, she comes and goes.She’s a working single parent. Peter gets it. She can’t always be there to get him up on time and make him breakfast, or pick him up from school, or bring dinner. They juggle those responsibilities and they manage.But when May is gonna be gone for a while, shealwaysleaves a note. Either that, or she texts, or shecalls.or: the one where may doesn’t come home.
Relationships: May Parker & Peter Parker, Natasha Romanoff & Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: irondad bingo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1485941
Comments: 88
Kudos: 619





	cold december night

**Author's Note:**

> hello bois! this one is pretty sad so if you’re not about that, you might wanna either grab a teddy bear and a blanket or... leave :( 
> 
> it’s also wayy longer than it was supposed to be so djdjdjd oops!!

  
“You know if you adjusted the angle of your lower thrusters by like, thirty percent you could gain altitude way quicker.”

Tony squints. “How much quicker?”

Peter double checks his calculations. “...like, point-five seconds?”

Tony hums. To an outside perspective, it might not be that much time, but to them it’s the difference between dodging a bullet or taking it; catching a person or letting them fall. 

“Thirty percent?”

Peter nods, eyes already back on his papers. He’d done the math in-between scrawling the answers to various physics problems. In front of him is a projected set of code he’s been tinkering with all week long, an upgrade for both FRIDAY and Karen that’ll help them understand pop culture a little better and even make their own references. 

Because obviously, this is a top priority issue. 

Tony is still fiddling with the holographic for his suit thrusters. He’d been trying to reverse engineer them in order to improve them, the way that someone might proofread a paper by reading it backwards or out loud instead of in their head. 

It’s then that Peter’s ears perk. 

He kicks Tony in the thigh without looking up. “Company.”

Tony frowns. “Pepper?”

If it’s Pepper, Tony needs to hide his work. She’d made him promise to take a break for at least two days, but Peter knows he’s already going stir crazy. Tony Stark can only read so many engineering textbooks before he caves and starts applying what he’s learned to his own tech. 

But Peter shakes his head because it’s not Pepper. He knows that because Pepper always wears heels. Literally, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her without them. It’s insane. 

Whoever it is, they’re right outside the door. 

“I’m not expecting anyone. Are you expecting anyone?”

Peter rolls his eyes at the question. “Yeah, because it would be totally cool of me to invite, like, Ned over.”

“Why wouldn’t it be? Mi casa, su casa.”

There’s a whole lot behind _that_ which Peter doesn’t get the chance to unpack because whoever it is lurking in the hallway opens the door. 

“Boys,” greets Natasha Romanoff. 

“Nat,” Tony says. His tone has changed into something airy. His back has straightened. “To what do we owe the displeasure?”

“Don’t be mean,” Nat scolds, skirting closer like a panther circling prey. “It’s late. You’re still working?”

“It’s noon,” Tony says. 

“Actually, it’s two AM,” FRIDAY corrects idly. 

“It’s _night?!_ ”

Tony and Nat both remember Peter’s there as soon as he screams his disbelief. He immediately starts packing up his things. “God, I gotta go. May is gonna kill me and I have a Chem test tomorrow and _why doesn’t this place have windows?!_ ”

“Oh, _now_ you’re complaining? And here I thought the sun was your mortal enemy.”

“Well, _yeah_ , but you could at least have like, a visible clock.”

“I don’t need a clock, I have FRIDAY.”

“She only tells you the time when you ask her!”

“So ask more often!”

“Oh. My god. I’m leaving. You suck.”

Natasha, for her part, seems amused by this whole exchange (if the slight upward tilt of her lip is anything to go by, Peter is still trying to learn how to read her). “You’d better hurry, little spinner.”

Peter blinks. “Uh, yeah. Bye.”

He’s never run faster in his life.

* * *

The shitty thing about Peter’s life is how unpredictable it is. That unpredictability can manifest itself in a lot of ways: missing the train for school, running into thugs when he’s not on patrol, pop quizzes—but the shittiest manifestation is definitely May’s all over the place work schedule. 

When he gets back to the apartment (sweating, panting, a list of excuses and apologies at the ready) there is no one home. 

Just a dark, empty living room. A cold kitchen. 

The door to May’s bedroom is open. Everything is neatly in its place. Even her bed is made, which is sort of rare but maybe she had time to kill before going into work. Peter hovers there for a moment, weirdly disappointed. 

How fucked up is he that he’d rather spend his night getting screamed at than have to sit at home alone?

Peter turns around. He has a routine for this kind of night, where he goes around and turns on every radio and TV that they own to fill the apartment with noise, before retreating to his room and falling face-first onto his bed. 

Sleep doesn’t come for a while.

* * *

The funny thing about May is, she comes and goes.

She’s a working single parent. Peter gets it. She can’t always be there to get him up on time and make him breakfast, or pick him up from school, or bring dinner. They juggle those responsibilities and they manage.

But when May is gonna be gone for a while, she _always_ leaves a note. Either that, or she texts, or she _calls_. 

Suffice to say when Peter wakes up in the morning and there is still no May, just the six o clock news on low and Frank Sinatra pouring out of the radio, he has concerns. 

He’d texted her last night before he’d crashed and the message still hasn’t even been read. Instead of texting her again, Peter calls. 

99% of the time when Peter calls, even if she’s working, she answers. 

May does not answer. 

“Hey May,” he says in his voicemail, “um, I was just wondering where you are. Like, I know you always say not to worry about you, but I haven’t seen you since yesterday morning so I… anyway, if you could just call when you’re on your break or something. I larb you. Bye.”

Peter stares at his phone for a second like an idiot, waiting to see if she’ll immediately call back. When she doesn’t, he turns on his ringer (for the first time in an eon) and then goes to make breakfast.

It’s while he’s cracking eggs that he notices the blinking light on the answering machine.

It’s kind of ominous in a way: a tiny little red light flashing on a machine that hasn’t been used in like, five years at _least_. Both Peter and May have gotten into the habit of listing their cells on forms instead of the home phone number, so no one really calls the apartment anymore. 

Peter sets down the whisk. 

He has a feeling he shouldn’t listen. 

He has a bad, bad feeling. 

He almost wants to call Ned or Tony and have them come here and listen for him, because he’s pretty sure… he doesn’t know how he knows but he’s pretty sure he knows what that message is gonna say. 

Peter clicks play. 

“ _This is Elizabeth Wayne from Flushing Hospital in Queens, New York. I’m calling for Ben Parker. I’m afraid I have some very upsetting news. If you could please get back in contact with me as soon as humanly possible. Thank you._ ”

There is a long, hollow beep as the message ends. 

Peter stares. 

His body moves on his own. It’s like it’s on autopilot. Every instinct is screaming not to call, not to call, but Peter knows the number for the hospital because it’s where May works. He tries very hard to rationalise it as he presses each number. Maybe she fell. Maybe she needs someone to come pick her up. Maybe… 

“ _Flushing Hospital reception, how may I help you?_ ”

“This is… this is Peter Parker calling for Elizabeth Wayne.”

“ _This is she_.”

Peter swallows. He slowly lowers himself to the ground. His stomach is very heavy. 

“You called for Ben Parker—”

“ _Oh, oh, my god, I’m so sorry—_ ”

Peter keeps talking. “He’s—he was my uncle? He died about three years ago—”

“ _That’s—I’m so sorry. He was listed as her emergency contact, she must have forgotten to change it—_ ”

“Why would you need to call her emergency contact?”

There is a pause. Then Elizabeth says, “ _Peter, are you sitting?_ ”

“Yes.”

“ _Peter, your aunt, May Parker… she passed away last night. I’m so sorry._ ”

Another pause. 

Peter waits for the rest of it. Waits for the prank to end, for the Uno reverse card. It doesn’t come. 

“ _Do you need a minute?_ ”

“What?”

“ _You heard what I said?_ ”

“Yeah. I did.”

“ _She… she was on her lunch break. There was black ice on the road and she… her car swerved and she went off the road. It all happened very quickly and—_ ”

She didn’t feel a thing. 

Right.

Peter pinches his brow. He realises he has not breathed for a solid minute. 

“Okay,” he whispers. 

“ _Mr. Parker, I’m so sorry to ask, but I’m afraid that I’m this circumstance—she was your last living guardian, correct? I’m afraid you’re going to need to come in._ ”

“Right.”

“ _I’m so sorry_.”

“Okay.”

“ _Will you be okay?_ ”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. 

Peter presses the little red button and the line goes dead. 

* * *

Hospitals always smell the same.

Peter has gotten used to it in a milder form, clinging to the pink of May’s scrubs when she comes home after a long day. 

Now it is all around him. Clean. _Sterile_. 

No matter how many people die here it always smells the same.

Peter is led down a long stretch of hallway to a room. From that room they go into another room. This one has a window on one wall, through which another, smaller room is visible.

In this room is a gurney. On the gurney is a body, covered with a sheet. There is a woman standing above the body wearing floral-pattered scrubs and blue latex gloves. 

Elizabeth asks Peter, “Are you ready?”

Peter nods.

The nurse on the other side of the glass pulls back the sheet just enough for Peter to—

“Okay,” he says, quickly, turning around. 

Elizabeth grabs his arm. Her hand is warm, unlike the hand of that body in there. That body is cold. Its skin is pale, not like May’s. Its eyes are closed. There is no more light there, no more warmth. Just empty. Just cold. 

“Breathe,” she says. 

Peter nods even though he cannot breathe. 

Her hand transfers to his back where she begins to rub in gentle circles and Peter jerks out of her grip because that’s what _May does_ that’s what _May used to do_. 

“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth whispers.

“I need a minute,” he mutters, and leaves as quickly as he can.

* * *

It doesn’t stop there. They give him his minute and then some. After that, Elizabeth takes him to floor two, where he is ushered into a mostly vacant conference room—with the exception of a woman in a pinstriped suit who gives him a sympathetic smile as soon as she sees him. 

The word _grief_ must be written in bold across his forehead. 

She introduces herself as Jo. They have a stilted conversation about what to do with May’s body, with her effects. Peter blurts cremation because he knows that’s what she wanted. She’d said so on the way back from Ben’s funeral. She’d said, “If I go, just scatter me someplace nice okay? I don’t… I don’t want to be put in a box and—”

Then she’d started crying in the back of the cab and Peter had done his best to comfort her, but he was too small to wrap his arms all the way around her and his throat was too thick to get any words out. 

Jo takes a minute to fill out some paperwork. Then she looks at Peter, all empathetic in the way that’s just making him feel sicker and sicker. 

“Alright, I think that’s everything. Now, I’m just gonna go fetch Tanya.”

“Tanya?”

“She’s the social worker that’s been assigned to your case.”

If Jo sees _grief_ , all Tanya will see is _orphan_. Peter flinches when the door shuts with a heavy clatter. For a minute he stares at it. 

Then he looks at the window. 

It’s not really a choice.

* * *

The first place Peter goes after climbing down the side of a hospital building in broad daylight is their Thai restaurant. 

Their, now only _his_. 

Somchai looks up when Peter walks in. There’s no bell, but he and May used to joke that he had a sixth sense for approaching customers. 

“Peter,” he says happily, “no May?”

Peter doesn’t answer. He sits down at their, _his_ usual table. 

“You… you okay, Peter?”

Peter looks up. Somchai is holding his menus to his chest like he’s afraid Peter will deface them if he gives them over. 

Peter just shrugs. “Can I just get a bowl of Khao soi?”

Somchai nods slowly. “Sure thing. Coming right up.”

Peter waits. When his food comes he eats. There is no one across from him, just an empty seat. 

Peter leaves a twenty on the table when Somchai is in the back working on a call-in order. 

* * *

School is gonna be out soon. Peter could go there and wait for Ned. 

Instead he goes to the library. Works on the history project due in two weeks—which is to say, he stares at the same page for hours while the day turns into night. 

But it’s quiet in the library. No one talks to him. He gets lost in the sound of turning pages and quiet whispers and forgets, for a little while, about that morning. He just drifts in and out of nothingness, half conscious even when he’s packing up to leave, walking to the subway, catching a train.

He stays on for the three stops necessary and watches the lights stretch out through the window. The glass is cool against his cheek. His eyes close only briefly, because in the dark he sees May, he sees Ben. He sees the shapeless forms of the parents he can’t remember. 

“121st Street,” the loudspeaker announces. 

Peter gets off.

* * *

The fire escape is rickety, so Peter largely clings to the wall to climb up and only uses the ladder enough so that outwardly, it doesn’t look like he’s a mutant freak. 

The third floor window is covered in fog, but through it he can see color: greens, purples, blues. He sucks in a deep breath, tells himself for the thirtieth time what he’s doing is okay, and knocks.

After a minute, the window slides up. 

MJ scowls. “What the hell are you doing here?! Why weren’t you at school today?!”

Peter shrugs. “Didn’t feel like going.”

MJ stares at him like he’s an alien. “What.”

“Can I… can I stay here tonight?”

“ _What?_ ”

And okay, he knows _logically_ it’s nonsensical to show up at MJ’s bedroom window at eleven at night when he’s only ever been here once, and they hardly talk except when she randomly drops in on him and Ned at lunch or during AcaDec, but he’s tired and hungry and it’s freezing out and… and… 

And maybe she can read all of that on his face, because she steps aside to let him climb through. 

“You look really messed up,” MJ observes. “You haven’t been like, drinking or…?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She fidgets. 

Peter points to a lamp shade covered in pink ballerinas. “Cute,” he says. 

“Shut up.”

It’s the first time he almost smiles. 

MJ clears her throat. “Are you okay, Parker?”

He doesn’t much feel like lying and MJ would see through it anyway, so he says, “No.”

“Well… okay, so I’m getting the vibe you don’t feel much like talking, which is, I mean, I get that,” she makes herself busy by shutting the window and closing the drapes, “I hate talking, too. I’m just… bad at it. But uh, can you just give me like, a general idea of why you’re here instead of—I don’t know, home? Or with Ned or something?”

Peter nods. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then finally says, “May died.”

The longest pause yet. 

Peter breaks it. “Do you have a sleeping bag?”

“Take the bed,” MJ blurts. She blushes. “I mean, um. I don’t have… no one’s ever really wanted to sleep over so—I just. Don’t mind. Sharing.”

Peter is too tired to even care. He just nods, strips off his coat and shoes, and collapses onto the left side of the bed. He’s out like a light. 

* * *

In the morning there’s a blanket draped over his body. He forgets where he is, forgets when, forgets why. For a second he is in the dark with the leftover delerium of sleep and he must have passed out on the couch, May must have wanted to make sure he was warm like she always does—

The mattress shifts. Peter opens his eyes. 

MJ is sitting cross-legged next to him, homework in her lap, a chipped coffee cup with tea in one hand. 

“Oh good, you’re up,” she says. “We have school in like two hours, and I mean—I get it if you don’t wanna go, but after you fell asleep last night I kind of did a crash course on how to deal with a person in mourning and a lot of sources say that keeping up with your daily routine as much as possible is the best way to go. Like, obviously if you feel too shitty we can just blow it off. Or I could go and bring your homework back for you, explain everything to Morita and all. I mean, it’s up to you.”

Peter blinks. “I’ll go.”

“I—you’re sure? Because both of my parents are out of town until Tuesday. You could totally just stay here.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Okay…” MJ squints. “You can borrow clothes from my stepdad. He’s pretty lanky like you.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

She returns to her Trig homework. Peter rolls out of bed and stumbles into the hallway bathroom. He splashes his face with cold water and just breathes for a minute, deep ones, the way May used to tell him to when he was having an asthma attack. _Just breathe, okay baby? Breathe with me._

* * *

MJ’s step-dad’s clothes are… not what Peter would normally wear. The dude apparently hasn’t adjusted his wardrobe since the nineties, which is why Peter shows up at school in a flannel and faded light blue jeans. 

He and MJ had sat together on the train. She’d shared her punk music with him. Now, she holds the door for him. 

Peter raises an eyebrow. 

“I believe chivalry should be a universal standard.”

He nods, almost smiles again. “Cool.”

The hallways are packed so no one notices them walk in together. At least, Peter doesn’t think so until he’s halfway through English 112 and Ned leans over to talk to him. 

“Dude, where have you _been?!_ I’ve been trying to get in contact with you for like, a _day_.”

Peter shrugs. “Just busy.”

Ned looks a little stupified, if not offended. “O-kay. Well, the craziest thing happened—dude, _Tony Stark_ called me yesterday looking for you. I mean, not to pry, but I seriously hope you at least got back to him because he sounded super worried.”

Peter swallows. “Did he… did he tell you anything?”

“Tell me anything? Like what?”

“Nothing.”

Ned’s brow furrows. “Okay, weird. Anyway, I totally saw you and MJ walk in together. What’s that about?”

Peter rounds on Ned. “Dude, I’m sorry, but I already have a C in this class and I really need to do good on this test.”

Ned’s eyes are wide. He leans back. 

“Yeah. Okay. Sorry.”

And that is how it starts.

* * *

By most, Peter Parker is considered a pretty mild-mannered kid. He gets good grades and keeps his head down and doesn’t get into fights. Bullies pick on him, the teachers know that, but they also know that non-confrontational Peter Parker never steps up, never pushes back (unless it’s on someone else’s behalf, and how strange is that).

Peter Parker is a pretty mild-mannered kid. He does not get into fights. 

Until today.

It’s as he’s walking from fourth period to his Calc BC class that Flash just… ruins everything. 

“Hey, Parker!” He calls. “You missed decathlon practise yesterday! Too busy schmoozing Tony Stark to help out your teammates?!”

And yeah, okay, _valid_ , but also:

_Fuck_ Flash.

That’s all Peter’s thinking when he throttles into him. Flash isn’t expecting the force behind the gimpy little dweeb that is Peter Parker. He is not expecting to be tackled, straddled, and punched so hard his nose cracks and starts to gush blood, _everywhere_ , all over both of them. 

Peter isn’t in his right mind but he knows when to pull his punches. He knows if he hits Flash too hard his skull will just split wide open like an egg and he’ll die. Peter Parker is perfectly capable of murdering with his bare hands, but before he can even accidentally do that, someone grabs him around the waist and yanks him back.

Peter, livid, rounds on who he expects is one of Flash’s posse. 

It’s not.

It’s Tony Stark.

“What the—”

“Come on, come with me,” Tony says, hauling Peter to his feet. He doesn’t even let Peter get in a word of protest before he’s practically dragging him out of the building. 

“What are you _doing_ here?!” Peter demands, the minute they’re outside—away from the whispers of _that’s Tony Stark_ , and _holy shit holy shit get a pic oh my god—_

“What am I doing here?! What are you doing here? This is the absolute last place I expected to find you after what happened yesterday.” 

“Oh yeah? Where _did_ you look?”

“Uh, your apartment, the hospital, the foster home you were assigned to, many many dumpsters—”

Peter turns around to walk away just like that. 

“Wait, wait, I’m sorry, this isn’t—” Tony sucks in a sharp breath. “Kid, what are you doing?”

“Going back to class.”

“You go back, they’ll suspend you.”

“So?”

“So, do you want me to talk to them for you?”

And God, that hurts, because that’s supposed to be _May’s_ job. It’s supposed to be _May’s_ job to march into the principal's office and demand that Peter be let off the hook for something that _clearly isn’t his fault_ and _are you out of your mind, Jim?!_

Peter shakes his head. “No.”

“Peter…” Tony steps closer. “It’s pretty clear you’re hurting. Hell, I’m hurting. But… let me help you. I can take you to the compound, get you settled in to that room I had set up way back when—”

“Get off me,” Peter snaps, because Tony’s hand is on his arm now. He wriggles out of his grip. “Just go away. I don’t need your help.”

The front doors of the school building burst open with MJ’s momentum. She is staring at them with wide eyes. “Peter?”

“I’m fine.” 

There is a long moment where he looks at her and she looks at him, and then she nods and goes back inside, just like that. At least _someone_ trusts him. 

Tony takes his glasses off. “Peter, CPS is looking for you.”

“So? I’ve avoided them so far.”

“Yeah, maybe, but see: that’s not gonna last forever. Wouldn’t you rather just be somewhere safe?”

“Figures,” Peter says, shaking his head. “I either get locked away like a lab rat or sold off to strangers.”

“That is _not_ what I’m saying—”

“Just go away, Tony.”

* * *

“So you’re Spider-Man?”

They are hunched over in the rear-most seats of the train car, knees pressed against the back of the seat in front of them. 

Peter nods. 

MJ turns her head to look at him. “Holy shit.”

“Didn’t think that would impress you.”

“I’m not _impressed_ , I—” she backtracks. “Okay, I’m a little impressed, but that’s not the point. Holy shit Peter, you’re like…”

He waits for something like a hero, 

Instead: “An _idiot_.”

“ _What?_ ”

MJ shakes her head in disbelief. “You could have killed Flash.”

“But I didn’t.”

“But you didn’t,” she repeats. “But you _could have._ Why didn’t you go with Stark?”

“Didn’t want to.”

“But aren’t you guys like… friends?”

Peter is suddenly struck with the difficulty of explaining just what exactly he and Tony are. They aren’t friends, or just teammates. They’re... 

“I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about Tony.”

“Okay… do you want to talk about your aunt?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Talking can be healthy.”

“Yeah? Did WikiHow tell you that?”

MJ just glares. Apparently she’s way better equipped to handle him right now than like, Ned. “Shut up. My sources were scholarly and renowned. And I’m serious. It might not seem like it, but you’ll probably feel better if you do.”

Peter scowls at his knees for a while.

MJ sighs. “I’m not gonna push you or whatever. I’m not a grief counselor. But… I’m here. Or whatever.” 

Peter almost snaps back with something sarcastic, like how gross and mushy the conversation is getting, but he chokes on it. 

Peter looks at her. “Thank you,” he says quietly. 

She nods. “Yeah. ’Course.”

They don’t talk for two stops. Then MJ asks, “So you’re not like, Tony Stark’s secret escort, right?”

“What? _No!_ Oh my god, do people think that?”

“No.” 

She coughs.

“Some people.”

Peter falls back against the seat. “Oh my god.”

* * *

“Do you mind if we make a pit stop?”

MJ says no, so they depart a little early and make their way to the area of Queens Peter is most familiar with: his block. 

It aches in a weird way, like he’s been gone for a year or something and he’s remembering where everything is and how everything should be. Nothing’s changed, of course it hasn’t, but he can’t help feeling like there should be a black cloud hanging over his apartment complex. 

They take the stairs because the elevator is broken and has been for like, two years. Peter isn’t remotely out of breath after climbing seven flights and MJ stares at him like he’s a freak of nature—which, y’know, fair.

He still has his keys. Opening the door shouldn’t feel like this, like he’s walking into a tomb. 

But it does.

Everything here is the same, too. The yellowed curtains above the sink, the drooping plants Peter had been planning to replace soon; May’s bedroom door is still wide open revealing the bed she will never sleep in again. 

Peter steps inside and his spine tingles because he realises, oh yeah, Tony was here. He turned off the TV and the radio while he was snooping around, even washed out the bowl Peter had been making eggs in when he listened to the message. 

Why would he do those things?

Peter tries not to think about it. He tries to avoid looking at May’s room and instead ducks into his own. He grabs a bag and starts stuffing clothes in there, then bursts into the bathroom and throws his toiletries on top. 

Back in his bedroom, he hesitates, because the suit is draped over the back of his desk chair. 

He should really grab it. 

Someone could need him. 

Peter almost reaches out and then—

“Um, Parker? You might wanna check this out.”

Peter follows MJ’s voice. He tries not to bristle about the fact that she’d gone into May’s room, but it takes all of his energy just to step over the threshold. MJ holds out an old wrinkled letter. “It has your name on it.”

Peter takes it. His first assumption is that it must be a birthday card or a bit of safety cash, but then—

“That’s not May’s handwriting.”

Now MJ is actually interested. She looms over his shoulder. “It says to not open it before you’re eighteen.”

Peter nods slowly. 

Then he rips it open.

* * *

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you in shock? Because I’m in shock.”

“I, uh.” Peter hugs his bag to his chest. “Maybe.”

MJ stares at him, wide eyed. She’s been doing that for twenty minutes. “What the _fuck_.”

“I _know_.” Peter shoots out of the kitchen chair. He paces the length of the kitchen once, twice, and then sits down again. “What am I supposed to do about this?”

“I mean, you should probably talk to him, right?”

“But what if he already _knows?_ ”

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ , maybe that’s why he was keeping tabs on me in the first place. And then what, he just shows up here out of nowhere and drags me to Germany?”

“Holy crap you went to Germany,” MJ breathes. “I totally forgot about that. You were _there_.”

Peter waves that off. “Maybe the only reason he’s actually bothered with me this long is because he knows that he’s my…” Peter chokes. “Fuck, I can’t even say it.”

MJ shakes her head. “This is big. This is huge.”

“It’s a huge terrible disaster, yeah.”

“Agreed.” She scoops up the letter and shoves it in her pocket. “So, like, I don’t know about you but when I get terrible news, I like to eat.”

“Yeah?”

She shifts her footing. “Ice cream?”

* * *

They sit in a booth and don’t talk. 

Then, finally, MJ falls back with a groan of frustration. “You need to say something, okay? Because my mind is racing and I literally have no idea what to do with this information. It’s driving me insane.”

“What do you want me to do, put it on a billboard in Times Square?” 

“ _Maybe_.”

“MJ.”

“Peter.”

“Listen, this is… I think I’m in shock.”

“Established that.”

“No, I really don’t think I’m processing this at all. I think there’s just… too much has happened. Because I don’t… I’m just…”

“Yeah.”

“—and CPS is looking for me, and I just got suspended—”

“I mean, silver lining, they won’t find you at school.”

“Not the point. The _point_ is…”

“Tony Stark is your secret dad.”

“ _Shhh_.”

“Oh please, we’re the only people here,” she snaps. “There’s another point. You should say it.”

“MJ…”

“It’ll help. You need to put it out there.”

“I…” he bites his tongue and glares out the window. It takes a long time to say it, and when he does it feels like his sternum is cracking wide open to reveal his slowly weakening heart. “May is dead.”

MJ nods. “Yeah. She is.”

He looks at her, barely realising he’s tearing up until his eyes start to sting. “How the hell did I get here?”

“I can’t answer that for you.”

She can’t. It’s on him to reverse engineer his own life, retrace every circumstantial incident that brought him to this very moment, in a cracked leather booth in the back of an ice cream shop with a girl he was terrified of until a day ago.

MJ nudges his shin with her boot. “Wanna go home?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

Home sounds nice.

* * *

“Do you think she knew?”

“Who?”

“May.”

MJ takes a moment to answer his question. They are lying on their backs now, both on her bed—but he’s above the comforter with a blanket to cover him, because… reasons.

MJ flops onto her side and squints at him through the dark. “Did she ever give you any reason to think she might have?”

Peter thinks and comes up short. Still, he tries to wrangle down the root of the anxiety. 

“I don’t know. It’s just… she didn’t really like him. At first I thought it was just her being protective, or maybe not agreeing with the whole ‘used to be a mass weapons producer’ thing—but like, what if it was because she thought he’d skipped out on me or something?”

MJ considers that. “What was it like when he showed up? What were they doing?”

“They were sitting on the couch eating date bars.”

“Was she happy? Anxious?”

“Just confused.”

“Then she probably didn’t know.”

Peter nods. That makes sense. If she had known, she would have been furious. Peter probably would have come home to a shouting match that day instead of a recruitment meeting in his bedroom. 

“You still thinking about it?”

“Yup.”

“You gonna sleep?”

“Nope.”

MJ sighs. She pulls her comforter up to her neck. He can feel her eyes on him for a long time before she finally flops onto her other side. “Night, Peter.”

“Night, MJ.”

* * *

Predictably, he doesn’t sleep.

Peter ends up on the roof of MJ’s complex, his legs dangling over the edge as he watches a plane make its slow descent through the hazy purple night sky. The lights blink red and white and he can’t help wishing that he was up there, too. He wishes he could just remove himself from it all, if only for a little while. 

“Hey, Spider-Baby.”

Peter doesn’t jump. He’d heard her coming, sensed it when she got close enough. He can tell it annoys the shit out of her that she isn’t capable of surprising him. 

“Romanoff.”

Natasha slinks closer. She reminds him more of a cat than a spider, especially with how at ease she is plopping down right beside him, mindless of their height. 

“You look a little sad.”

He shrugs. “I have a lot of reasons to be.”

“Yeah, I know,” she leans back. “I heard about your aunt. I’m sorry.”

The weird thing is, he’s pretty sure she means it. 

Peter finally meets her eyes. They are searching, a little calculating even, like he’s an equation she just can’t solve. The feeling is mutual.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, it might surprise you, but I actually stopped by Tony’s the other day to see you.”

“Me? What, you wanna drag me out to a cornfield again?”

Nat scoffs. “You came willingly.”

“I was manipulated.”

That gets her attention. “You really are a perceptive little spider, aren’t you?”

“Haven’t we already established that?”

Maybe it’s insane that he’s holding a conversation with her with such ease, but he’s trying his very best to act casual around her—after all, she is the Black Widow. But she hadn’t tried to snap him in half the last time they met and right now, she looks relatively non-threatening anyways, dressed in street clothes (an ensemble that does in fact include a Hello Kitty sequin tank top). 

Nat nudges his shoulder with her own. “Tony’s real worried about you.”

“Yeah.”

“You gonna keep him on the line forever?”

Peter bites his cheek. “I’m just really not in the mood to be constantly evaluated.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean… the worst part of my parents dying wasn’t even missing them, or whatever. I barely remember that. But I remember the weeks after where _everything_ I did, every face I made, everything I _said_ —it’s like May and Ben we’re trying to analyse me. Which is, I mean, I know they just wanted to make sure I was okay, but it would’ve been nice to just not be okay, you know? I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“No, I get it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, flip it around a little. Back in the program I had all these girls who were supposed to be like my sisters. We trained together, we ate together—god, we’d even put on shows for each other in the dance studios. But if one of us didn’t make the cut, it…” her face twists. “The strongest one had to get rid of them. I was… I was always very strong. Anyway, this girl who’s like my little sister, they put me and her in a room together and hand me a gun and say, ‘Go,’ and I… I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t even realise what I’d done until I really thought about it, and when I did it—well, they didn’t like us to feel remorse. They didn’t want us to be anything but perfect. Grief was a weakness, mercy was a weakness.”

Peter nods. “You felt trapped.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Well, I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

He doesn’t say _it’s okay_ , or _I’ll get over it_ , because the scary part is, he doesn’t think he will. He thinks, maybe, this was the last straw. He thinks he’s a hop skip away from just going crazy. He is and always will be afraid to get close again, to trust again, to love again. 

Nat nudges his foot. “It’s not easy being us.”

“No, I guess not.” He frowns. “What’d you come to see me for the other day, anyway?”

She stares at him for a long moment and is lying when she replies, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay after the whole Kansas fiasco.”

He stares back. “Right.”

Nat ends the moment by jumping to her feet in one smooth, slightly terrifying move. “Well, I should probably head back to the hidey hole. Put the Spidey Signal in the sky if you need me.”

“ _Ha ha_.”

* * *

Peter needs her sooner than he thinks. 

On Monday night MJ has no choice but to boot him out. Her parents are gonna be back early in the morning, which means they can’t risk getting caught doing… whatever they’re doing. Spending the days in dead arcades and bowling alleys and burger joints (MJ has decided she’ll miss school in solidarity), and the nights watching cheesy rom coms, or making fun of reality TV shows. 

It’s actually… really fun. It’s different than how life was with May, different than life with May and Ben. It’s its own brand of chaos, and Peter lets himself get a little swept up in it. He has moments, short ones, where he just forgets that anything is wrong; where he no longer feels the imbalance in the universe. 

Then MJ’s apartment door closes behind him and it all comes flooding back. 

Peter walks slow because he’s just so heavy with it. He feels wrong, he feels ashamed, for finding any joy in anything no matter how minor it is. 

Outside, it’s raining. Peter pulls up his hood, intent on the course for Ned’s. He might not even ask to stay there, he just wants to say sorry. He still hasn’t explained anything, hasn’t answered any calls or texts from anyone. 

It’s not fair to Ned, who’s always been there for him, who’s always done his best to help wherever he can. Ned, who knew May, who cared about her. 

The weight is getting heavier. It begins to rain even harder. Peter feels like he’s carrying a ten ton bag of bricks on his back. 

He’s looking down at his feet instead of up, which is why he doesn’t see it. But he _hears it_ : a quiet, muffled whimpering, coupled with strained breaths. 

Peter looks up and finds himself in the mouth of a dark alleyway. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out someone is getting choked down there, and Peter mentally curses himself for not grabbing his suit before. 

“I’m an idiot,” he mutters, and charges headfirst into action.

* * *

Tony is mid-way through the config for vibranium prosthetics when the little spider figurine on his desk begins to flash red. 

Tony drops what he’s doing immediately. “Talk to me, FRIDAY.”

“ _Peter has sustained multiple injuries, one of which appears to be critical_.” 

Tony, on his way to the launch pad, snaps, “Well give me details here!”

“ _Three broken bones, multiple lacerations to his abdomen, legs, and arms, a concussion, and a GSW. The bullet entered his body between the fifth and sixth rib. He has lost a substantial amount of blood and requires immediate medical attention._ ” 

Pieces of armour are flying at him but it’s just not fast enough, and Tony is beginning to panic. The minute his faceplate connects he takes off, flying blind until his HUD flickers to life. 

“ _The Weather Channel has also issued a wind advisory—_ ” 

“You think I care?!”

FRIDAY sighs. “ _I’m alerting Cho to have the medbay prepared. Do I have your all-clear?_ ”

“Yes, _obviously_. Give me an exact location, would you?”

The coordinates appear but they’re moving—not a lot, but just enough for Tony’s heart to start palpating because what the _fuck_ is this kid doing on his feet? 

“Is he in his suit?”

If he’s in his suit, Tony can actually start helping him now. There’s plenty of tech built into it that allows for stopping excessive blood flow, sterilising wounds, and a whole host of other foreseeable first aid bits and bobs. 

“ _I’m afraid not. I’m using using his phone to track him currently._ ” 

“Then how they hell do you know about his injuries?!”

“ _Someone filmed the entire incident and posted it online._ ” 

Tony… 

Tony is gonna break something. He’s gonna scream. He’s gonna track whoever filmed that video down and break their fucking kneecaps but first, first he has to find the kid. 

It isn’t hard. Tony drops in altitude when he gets close and just follows the trail of blood. 

He finds Peter slumped over a stack of cardboard boxes behind an abandoned textile factory. In the rain, it’s hard to see clearly until Tony’s landed right next to him with a heavy thunk; until he’s gingerly pulling Peter away from the wall to get a handle on the situation. 

“Kid? Hey, it’s me. It’s Tony.”

“W… Tony…” Peter blinks. His pupils are uneven, his face is pale. “M’sorry.”

To Tony’s horror, the kid starts to cry, and any other time Tony might actually have the sense to at least try and comfort him but right now he’s dying, losing more blood by the second. 

“Okay, it’s okay. Everything is gonna be fine, but right now I gotta get you to the tower, okay? Just hold on tight.”

* * *

Peter opens his eyes and there’s only white, bright and blinding, so harsh it couldn’t ever be constituted as heavenly. He hisses and scrunches his face up, trying to roll over but finding himself roadblocked by insurmountable pain. He grunts and settles for covering his eyes with his hands. 

“FRI, lights at fifteen percent.”

Hesitantly, Peter peeks out from between his fingers. It seems safe enough and so he looks around, only to find Tony perched at the end of his bed. 

He observes Peter almost casually, dark eyes roving up and down his form. Contemplatively he scratches his cheek and just waits, like he wants Peter to make the first move. 

“Well,” Peter says after a minute, “you got me.”

“Funny.”

“You gonna keep me locked up here until I’m eighteen?”

“Not if you don’t wanna stay, but if you ask me, this is probably the best place for you.”

Peter looks away. “Whatever.”

Tony falls silent. Then comes the sound of his chair scraping across the floor so that he’s even closer, and Peter’s skin prickles and burns as a result. It’s stupid because deep down he knows Tony didn’t do anything except try to help, but Peter can’t help it. 

“Kid, please look at me.”

It takes all of his strength to turn his head. 

He sees that Tony’s eyes are sad now, and soft around the edges, and his hand twitches like he’s thinking about reaching for Peter’s only to stop himself at the last second.

“I know it’s not easy for you, right now. I know you’re in a lot of pain and you probably just wanna be left alone, so I’ll save the lecture for another time—”

“Gee, thanks.”

“— _but_ , I gotta know: are you gonna let me help you?”

“I don’t need—”

“ _Peter_.”

They both scowl. Tony is the first to cave. His shoulders slump. “You’re sixteen years old. You’re still a minor. You need someone who knows about your whole Spider-Baby gig to be there, not some foster family who doesn’t have the resources to remove a nine mil from your chest in the comfort of their own home. I can do that for you, as we’ve established. Are you gonna let me?”

And Peter, who can only think of two alternatives to that—either living indefinitely on Ned’s bedroom floor or in a halfway house somewhere—has little choice but to nod. 

Tony smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Like complete crap.”

“Yeah, well, Cho says your healing factor isn’t quite up to scratch considering your appetite’s been a little… anyway, it might take a little longer for you to be up and at ’em again.”

“Right.”

Tony leans forward intently. “Peter.”

Normally when Tony talks in that tone it makes… it makes Peter feel safe, like everything is gonna be okay, like there is another person he can rely on and trust. It’s a feeling he has avoided unpacking because it _scares_ him—and god, if it was scary before it’s _terrifying_ now because Peter can’t—

His voice is flat when he says, “What.”

Tony sighs. He scrubs a hand down his face. Looks back up and the mask is gone, he’s just broken and sorry. 

“I care about you.” 

A pause.

“You know that, right? You know I only want to help you? I only want to do—do what I think _she_ would want.”

“This is the last thing she’d want,” Peter tells him, and it’s not true, it’s really not, but he’s so angry and so scared and it does the job: it gets Tony to lean back in affront so that finally there is space between them, finally Peter can breathe. 

“I… you’re probably right. You knew her better than I did.”

Peter says nothing. He turns away. 

“I’ll let you sleep,” Tony quietly says, and then the lights are off all the way and the door is closed and Peter is alone.

All alone.

* * *

  
His healing process is indeed slow. What would normally take about four days tops stretches out into a week. After a little while though, Peter is able to transfer from the MedBay to a room Tony had prepared for him last minute. 

“The one at the compound is better,” Tony says, hovering in the doorway. “I even had someone come in and paint a Star Wars themed mural on the wall.”

“This is fine.”

It really is, if a little… barren. The walls are white and glassy, the bed is plain, and the furniture is pretty scarce. It’s like a classy hotel room or something. 

“Well!” Tony claps his hands together. “Do you want something to eat? To drink? There’s an en suite bathroom through that door by the way if you wanna, you know, wash up, take a shower.”

A shower sounds good. Peter nods, neglects specifying which exact amenatie he’s after and hopes Tony gets he means _all of them._

Peter wanders into the bathroom. It’s spacious and clean, like it’s never been used. He wouldn’t be surprised if that were true. There’s a bath _and_ a shower, two sinks, a spotless mirror. 

The floor tiles are heated. 

“Huh,” he says, and then closes the door in Tony’s face.

* * *

Peter barely eats. 

Tony makes this observation after only two days of the kid living with him. He prepares the two of them dinner—boxed macaroni and cheese that ends up tasting like garbage, something he insists must have to do with the quality of the food rather than his cooking skills—and serves it at the table. 

Peter doesn’t come, even when Tony tells FRIDAY to alert him a second time. So Tony gives up and decides to just leave it outside of his door. 

An hour later, it’s still sitting there, cold and stiff. 

Tony rinses out the bowl and tries again in the morning. 

Scrambled eggs, excellent source of protein, doesn’t take a rocket scientist to throw together. He thinks these, at least, are pretty passable. Again he leaves them outside Peter’s door and, when he checks again, they are only half gone. 

Still, progress. 

Lunch comes around. He makes a sandwich. Stares at the plate and then fixes up another one for a regular old Scooby Snack. He leaves those outside the door and knocks this time. 

Again, only half eaten, and not nearly enough for Peter, but it’s better than nothing. That’s what he keeps telling himself while he hovers outside of Peter’s bedroom door, weighing how bad the kid might react if he tried to go inside. 

He doesn’t seem to want Tony around, which… is new. Tony is pretty used to the kid hovering in his peripheral vision like an excited horse fly, not shutting himself up, not… not _angry_. 

It’s become pretty apparent that this entire time he was only ever seeing one side of Peter: the happy one, the go lucky kid. The one who tripped over his own feet with anticipation and rambled endlessly about dungeons and dragons, or calculus homework, or _anything_. 

He doesn’t know what to do with Angry Peter. He doesn’t know if he should keep giving him space or try to confront him. 

Really, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing at _all_. Pepper is in Beijing for two more weeks so he has no support there; Rhodey is somewhere in the Middle East (last he’d heard, but he could be anywhere by now). Tony is utterly stranded with no life support; just a pissed off teenager for company who’s grieving for the loss of not only his aunt, but his entire life as he knew it. 

In between all of this, Tony works on what he can. He doesn’t feel comfortable going down to the lab while the kid is alone in the penthouse, so he brings his work upstairs. A lot of it is just minor adjustments and even some paperwork Pepper left for him that he’d been planning to ignore, but now can’t because there are just no more excuses. It’s not like he’s gonna spend his whole day staring at a door. 

(Except… he sort of spends the whole day staring at that stupid fucking door). 

He doesn’t really blame Peter for being… well, for being an ass. It’s not like he’s got any ground to stand on when it comes to behaving reasonably, especially in the face of grief. After his parents had died, he’d spent almost six months in a drunken stupor and after that got old, he’d turned to sex and cocaine. 

Which is exactly what he _doesn’t_ want for Peter. Sure, the kid probably wouldn’t go for that shit anyway, but grief does crazy things to the mind. 

So he’s not holding a grudge.

But damn if what he’d said the other day hadn’t hurt. 

Even if Tony knows he’s wrong, even if he knows it’s exactly what May had wanted because she’d written it in her damn will, he still feels like shit for all of this—because Peter doesn’t want it. 

Tony does his best to shove those thoughts away. The kid doesn’t know what he wants. He’s not thinking straight, he’s not acting like himself. 

On day three, though, Tony can put up with it no longer. He’s restless, anxious; pacing in the hallway for nearly an hour before he finally bucks up and opens the door.

“Alright, this has gotta stop.”

“ _What_ has to stop?”

Peter glares from his bed. Tony glares from the doorway. “What do you think? This! Sitting in this room at all hours of the day, not eating, not talking!”

Peter shakes his head. “What I do isn’t your business.”

“Uh, I beg to differ, kid. Like it or not, you’re sort of my responsibility now—”

“And I bet you’re just so thrilled about that.”

“’Cuz you just make it so _easy!_ ” Tony snaps, before he can stop himself. 

Peter looks up. Tony’s chest heaves and he runs a hand down his face, turning to rest it against the door jamb. “I’m sorry. That was… that was low.”

“Yeah.”

“So is this what we’re doing then? Is this the plan? You sit in here and stare at the wall all day and I wait for something to give? Because I gotta tell you, it’s not working for me. I can’t _think_ , okay? You need time, you need space, that’s great—but for the love of god would you just—just _talk to me?_ Give me some parameters here, some guidelines—”

“Okay, fine!” Peter stands up, looking pissed to all hell. “Guideline number one: you _leave me the hell alone._ That’s it! That’s all of them!”

“Peter…”

“No! I can’t do this, okay? I can’t—I can’t have you hovering outside and putting all of this pressure on me to-to feel or act a certain way! I—what do you expect? You think I can _eat?_ You think I can sleep when this is—she’s _dead!_ She’s gone and she’s not coming back and I’m _all alone!_ ”

“Peter,” Tony takes a step forward, “just breathe, okay?”

“No! _No!_ This is such _bullshit!_ God, what—what did she ever do to—why _her?_ ”

He’s crying now, and he maybe doesn’t even realise it. 

“You’re not all alone. I promise you’re not.”

“It’s not fair,” Peter whispers back. “It’s not _fair_.”

Tony reaches out. The second they make contact, Peter just _breaks_. He folds into himself with a heavy, broken sob. It is utterly terrifying to watch him crumble; to watch him fall to pieces and not know what to do.

But there is an instinct, a little lightbulb blinking in the back of his head sending a transmission to the rest of his brain and then his body is moving, forward to envelope Peter in his arms, and Peter struggles for a good few seconds before he finally gives in and just cries against Tony’s chest. 

Tony is… a stranger to this. Comfort. He’s more used to being the givee than the giver; Pepper gets that, and even Rhodey, but this kid? Something tells Tony he _won’t_ get that, and something else tells him he _shouldn’t have to_. 

So he just keeps holding him, keeps muttering nonsense neither of them can hear over the sound of Peter crying, keeps running a hand up and down Peter’s back. 

After a little while, the sobs taper off a little. Peter keeps his face where it is though, even when he says, “I’m sorry, Tony.”

“Sorry? What are you sorry for?”

“What I said the other day… it wasn’t true. I didn’t mean it. Or today.”

Tony hums. “I know, kiddo.”

“You’re doing all this stuff for me and I’ve just been treating you like garbage—”

“Hey, you know what?” Tony pulls back so Peter can see him, see that he means this, “if anyone gets a free pass right now, it’s you.”

Peter sniffs, wipes his eyes. “I’m still sorry.”

“Well, I’m sorry too.”

There is another pause, this one not at all tense. Tony asks, “You wanna maybe come out for something to eat now?”

“No… I’m really tired. I think I’ll just take a nap. But maybe… maybe later?”

“Offer’s always open, kid.” 

* * *

It’s two in the morning when Peter finally slips out of his bedroom. 

The hallway is dark, the living room is a black pit—but Peter knows Tony, at least enough to figure there’s no way he’s actually asleep right now. 

So he wraps the throw blanket he’d snatched off the chiaz in his room a little tighter around his body and then creeps slowly toward the stairwell at the end of the corridor. The way is lit with blue tinted LED lights affixed beneath each step. 

Like he’d predicted, Tony is hunched over a desk. To Peter’s surprise he’s not tinkering with anything or reviewing schematics; he’s pinching his brow over a stack of paperwork, scanning every word with a wired kind of intensity. 

Peter ducks inside. 

Tony doesn’t notice him until he’s a few feet away, but he doesn’t look up until Peter is sitting right beside him. 

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“No,” Peter replies, quietly. “I was thinking.”

“Yeah? About?”

“We have to scatter May’s ashes.”

It comes out in a strained whisper. Tony stiffens in response. He sets down his pen to face Peter. “I uh… they didn’t give me all that many details when I went down to the hospital to find you, but they told me—she’ll be ready by now. To collect.”

Even though it makes him feel sick to think about, Peter nods.

To get his mind off it he asks, “What’s all this?”

“Oh, uh, custody paperwork.”

Peter balks. “For me?”

“Well, yeah. Figured since you’re living here and all, we should probably go through the usual legal routes. There’ll probably be a few inspections here and there, maybe a meeting or two, but I wouldn’t worry about it all that much.”

“Right.”

Tony studies him. “Are you okay with this?”

If Tony had asked him yesterday Peter probably would have blown up in his face, but… okay, it’s so stupid, but ever since he’d actually cried he’s felt at least marginally better. It’s like at least some of the clouds in his head cleared away and now he can think, and feel things in a more sensical way. So he shrugs, cheeks burning with shame, and says, “Yeah, I guess.”

Tony nods. “Okay. Alright. Good. So I’ll dot my t’s and cross my i’s—”

Peter startles them both with the surprised snort of laughter that escapes him. He covers his mouth with the blanket. “Sorry.”

There’s a hint of a smile on Tony’s face when he says, “You don’t have to be.”

* * *

They stand on a cliff’s edge overlooking the ocean. It’s windy today, freezing, but this is where she’d wanna be. 

“Why here?” 

Peter looks down at the urn he’s been hugging to his chest the whole car ride here. “We’d come here in the summer. Me and her and Ben. It wasn’t like we could afford anything better and… I don’t know. She was just always really, really happy when she came here. I think it reminded her a little bit of Italy.”

Tony nods. He’s not wearing sunglasses today, but he’s dressed in a three-piece all black suit. Peter knows May would have rolled her eyes if he’d worn the same, so he’d opted for something a little less formal but still respectful enough. 

Tony puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. Over the past two days, since their argument, those little touches have increased in frequency. They are becoming less hard to bear. 

Peter takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

* * *

Three hours later and they’re sitting across from each other in the booth of a truck stop diner. Peter’s never been in one of these before, all neon lit and chrome plated and retro, but Tony had pulled off without any explanation except, “Cheeseburgers.”

Peter’s stomach has agreed before he could. Now he’s downed, like, three—which is disgusting but totally valid considering he hasn’t really eaten in like a week.

Tony is busy dipping a fry in his milkshake when Peter asks, “Can Ned come to the tower?”

Tony swallows. “I uh, I don’t see why not.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I mean, as long as you two don’t blow anything up in your lab—”

“My lab?”

Tony blinks. “Did I not tell you? Huh. Thought I had. Anyway, it was supposed to be a Christmas present but I figure since you’re there full time anyway, you might as well make use of it. What’s two weeks, anyway?”

Normally Peter would be vibrating with excitement and there’s a part of him, really, that _wants_ to. He wants to let himself be happy about this, but it’s just so fucking hard when all he can think is that he _shouldn’t_ be living at the tower; he should still be with May in their seventh floor walk up, sitting on the couch watching soap operas in Spanish. His life shouldn’t be… _this_. 

All he can say is, “Um… thank you.”

“Yeah, no biggie. And hey, while we’re here, we should probably address the elephant in the room.”

“Elephant?”

“Y’know, the fact that you were suspended last week? I mean, if you want to stay out of school for a little bit, that’s fine, but I really think it might do you some good to have a distraction.” 

“Tony, I _really_ don’t wanna talk about this right now—”

“Which I _get_ , but it does need to be handled. I just think it might be good for you to get outta the house, you know?”

And all of it, all of the pressure, the fact that he actually _tackled Flash_ and _broke his nose_ and got _kicked out of school_ just starts boiling up in Peter’s stomach, constricting his airway, and he can’t _breathe_.

Peter climbs out of the booth as fast as he can. He ignores Tony calling after him when he stumbles out of the diner, clinging to the outer wall before sinking down to the ground. 

His shirt—he can’t breathe—god, he has to get it off, he’s too hot, it’s too much—he can’t _breathe_ —

Hands touch him and there is a voice, muffled, but Peter can’t hear that over the ringing in his ears. Tony’s mouth is moving, he’s touching Peter, Peter doesn’t _want_ to be touched.

He jerks out of Tony’s grip and shakes his head rapidly. “Just—don’t—”

“Peter,” Tony’s voice is beginning to get a little clearer, “just take a deep breath, okay?”

And that’s all anyone’s been telling him to do. Breathe, when May can’t. Breathe so he can keep going, keep scraping his way through the grief and the pain and the loneliness, like it’s so easy. 

“Hey,” Tony says quietly, and now he’s kneeling down next to Peter, “I’m right here, kid.”

“ _Tony_ ,” Peter rasps, and that’s all. 

Breaths. Heartbeats. Hands braced on his knees and tears in his eyes and shame slowly burning a hole in his stomach. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I don’t know—”

“It’s okay,” Tony reassures. “I get it, really.”

“I don’t mind that much, really. I’ll go back to school. I don’t know why I—”

“Peter… sometimes these things just build up. It’s not because of any one thing. And believe me, you don’t have to explain it to me. When I say I get it, I mean I get it.”

Peter looks up at Tony. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Is it okay to touch you? I wanna help you up if you feel like you can stand.”

Peter nods shakily. “I can stand.”

“Fantastic, showstopping.” His grip is gentle as he hauls Peter to his feet. “You wanna go back inside or go home? Either one is fine by me.”

“Uh… home.” Peter swallows. “But can we, like, not talk about this? Or anything?”

Tony looks a little bit like he’s trying to swallow a lemon, but he still agrees. Peter waits outside while he pays their tab. Hands in his pockets, head tilted back to take in the stars, he wonders what May would have done had she been here. 

Probably the exact same things, he concludes, and that scares him. 

* * *

“Hey, little spinner.”

Peter doesn’t reply except to slide the second glass of water over to the seat Natasha takes. She tilts forward to look at him. 

“Rough night?”

“You could say that.”

She hums. “It gets easier, you know. When you lose someone.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve done it before.”

The air around them turns sad. Natasha scoots a little closer and surprises him by resting her chin on his shoulder. “You’re not doing yourself any favours keeping it all in, you know. No matter how fast you run, it’ll catch up to you. Grief is a bitch like that.”

Peter raises an eyebrow at her. “Have you been hiding under my bed or something?”

Nat snorts. “No, but I have eyes. It’s all over you.”

“I just… I just want it to stop. I want things to go back to how they were.”

“They can’t.”

“I _know_ that, but it doesn’t change anything. I’m still gonna spend every waking minute wishing I could’ve done something or maybe… maybe if I’d come home a little earlier—”

Nat smacks him upside the head. “You’re torturing yourself with that.” 

“God, you’re mean.”

“I’m practical. There’s no practicality in entertaining useless _what ifs_ , you hear me? You’ll just drive yourself crazy.”

Peter scowls down at the countertop. Eventually he asks, “Does Tony know you’re here?”

“What Tony doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“That’s breaking and entering. You could be arrested.”

Nat actually laughs. “Believe me, there’s already a whole list of things I should be arrested for. I’m sure you know that.”

“I do.” He sips his water. “Wouldn’t be that way if you’d just stayed on Team Tony, but whatever.”

She sighs. “Probably not, but… I love my family, you know? And Tony… Tony can take care of himself. He has all kinds of support from Potts and Rhodes and, hell, even you. But Steve? Without Barnes, he’s got no one. Someone needed to be there to make sure he had his head on straight.”

“So where is Barnes, then?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re Team Tony.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Whatever happened to arachnoes before hoes?”

She kicks his shin. “I never said he went anywhere. It’s just that even when he’s here, he’s…”

“Messed up?”

“Something like that.”

“So he’s not in Wakanda anymore.”

Her eyes turn to slits. “Whatever gave you the idea he was?”

“You know, for a spy, you should really be better at whispering around people who have super hearing.”

Her shoulders fall. “Shit.”

“Aw, did I make you feel stupid?”

Nat grabs her glass like she’s about to pour it over his head. “You know what, Parker—”

The lights flick on.

They both round on Tony, who’s standing at the top of the stairs, frowning. “What the hell is this?”

Natasha looks at Peter. He looks right back. Then they both trip over each other running for it, and Peter laughs again, and a little bit of that weight disappears.

* * *

The next week is easier. The day after Nat’s impromptu visit, Ned comes over. He’s clearly trying not to freak out the whole time, but Peter can tell he’s buzzing with excitement. 

Tony gives them the whole penthouse to himself and so Peter and Ned set up shop in the living room. Ned dumps out an entire box of LEGOs and they set to work. 

“I should have told you,” Peter says after a while. 

Ned almost drops his brick. “It’s—it’s really okay, Peter. I get it.”

“Yeah, but… I just feel like shit. I’m sorry.”

Ned shrugs, and that’s that. They talk about school: apparently Peter’s been literally _all_ anyone’s been talking about since the fight. There’s a rumour that MJ told him about on the train, and another that he’s Tony Stark’s secret son (which makes Peter almost snort his soda), and even—

“Someone said you might be Spider-Man.”

Peter blanches. “ _What?_ ”

“Yeah. I mean it was just like one person, and everyone was like ‘there’s no way, that’s so dumb’ and like, I _hate_ ganging up on people but _obviously_ I had to be like, ‘yeah that’s totally insane’ and so no one’s talked about it since… but Peter, you took _Flash_. No one thinks you’re a wimpy nerd anymore.”

Peter falls back against the sofa and closes his eyes. “Shit.”

“I’m sure it’ll blow over,” Ned assures quickly. “Stuff like this always does.”

“Maybe, but the last thing I need is extra eyes, you know?”

Ned nods. “You’ll just have to be super, super careful when you come back.”

There’s a pause.

“You are coming back, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter says quickly. “Yeah, I am. Just… after winter break.”

“Oh, cool. Well, I brought all of your stuff so you don’t get behind or anything. Apparently Mr. Stark talked to all the staff so no one is like, mad at you or anything. Mrs. Tate even said she hopes you feel better soon.”

Peter takes the homework that Ned procures from his backpack. It’s a pretty substantial amount. “That was nice of her.”

“Right? I _totally_ thought she hated us. Anyway, I should probably get going. You know how my mom is.”

Peter is confused until he glances at his watch and realises it’s already _seven in the afternoon_. He and Ned blew the whole day away in what felt like an hour. 

“Wow, yeah, okay. Um—and thanks. For coming, I mean.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Ned gives him a Don’t Be An Idiot look, “ _always_. And text me, okay? MJ too, she’s been going totally insane.”

“She has?”

Ned grins. “Oh my god.”

“Shut up!”

“Oh my _god!_ ”

“ _Ned!_ ”

* * *

Peter is greeted with a high pitched beep when he enters the lab that night, followed with the sound of Tony shouting, “Don’t touch that! Put that down! I swear to god, I’ll remove your claw if you don’t—thank you.”

Peter smiles a little as DUM-E rolls away, his arm hanging dejectedly. 

“You’re mean to him,” he tells Tony, sitting across from him. 

Tony shrugs. “He asks for it.”

Peter doubts that, but he’s not about to argue over the way Tony parents his robot. He sits in silence, just watching Tony work. That can be even more of a learning experience than actually getting his hands on the material, sometimes; Tony has this weird habit of muttering to himself when he’s doing things. 

“Did you eat today?”

Tony sighs. “Probably not and—why?”

“It’s annoying, isn’t it?”

“Oh, wow, funny. Pass me that screwdriver, would you?”

Peter does. Tony goes back to his parts. It’s been utterly disassembled so that Peter has no idea what he’s looking at. 

“How did it go with Ned?”

“It was good,” Peter says. “And I decided I want to go back to school.”

“Did you?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you’re trying to pretend you’re only marginally interested in what I’m saying but you’re actually really happy.” 

Peter nudges his knee. Tony huffs and looks up. “You have my attention.”

“The other day…” Peter swallows. “What happened wasn’t your fault. I just… wanted you to know that.”

Tony nods slowly. “I figured.”

“So you’re not upset?”

“Upset? Why would I be upset?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs uselessly. “I just don’t want things to be, like, awkward.”

“Things are not awkward. They’re fine. Look at us: we’re fine, we’re perfectly companionable. Pass the fillister.”

Peter passes the screw. 

Tony continues to ramble. “It’s like I said, I’m no stranger to panic attacks. I want you to know that because—if you feel like you’re about to have one, or you did have one, especially at school—all you have to do is call me, okay? I don’t care what time it is, I don’t care if I’m in Yugoslavia. You call me and I can help talk you down, I can call Happy to pick you up or I can do it myself—”

“Okay,” Peter says quickly. “Okay. Thank you. I get it.”

Tony sighs. “And now I’m being my mother. This whole time I was worried about being my father and I’m my _mother_ , what a plot twist.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Pass the torx.”

Peter passes the torx. “Am I annoying you? Should I leave?”

He doesn’t know exactly where the insecurity comes from, but it is there, _always_. It is an undercurrent to his every day life: _should I leave? am I supposed to be here?_

The next thing he knows, Tony is setting his tools down and circling the desk, and then his arms are just… around Peter.

And yeah, they’ve hugged before once or twice, but it’s always been awkward and there’s always been an uneasy buildup. Tony just _doing it_ —Peter is sort of thrown. It takes him a second to reciprocate. 

“Um,” he says. 

“Oh, what? Was I just supposed to let you sit there like a kicked dog?”

Peter snorts. “Way to ruin it.”

Tony draws back and _no_ , that _sucks_ , Peter was so warm a second ago. “You’re not annoying me, kiddo. I promise.”

Peter is about to open his mouth to say something back, _anything_ , when a cell phone rings. 

Tony jumps and fumbles for his back pocket. He pulls out the flip phone—the one Peter had seen him talk to Steve Rogers on forever ago. “Okay, definitely not annoying, and I don’t want you to leave but unfortunately you gotta because I have to take this.”

* * *

Peter ascends the stairwell quietly and does his best to keep his mind carefully blank. If he starts to entertain any of the tumultuous thoughts inside his brain, they’ll just unravel like a never-ending ball of yarn. Then he won’t sleep. 

He expects to find the main floor of the penthouse dark and empty, but to his surprise there’s a light on in the kitchen. Peter gravitates toward it and discovers Pepper Potts standing at the kitchen counter with a steaming mug. 

“Ms Potts.”

“ _Pepper_ ,” she corrects, looking up with a smile. 

“Pepper,” Peter repeats. “You’re back. It’s late.”

“It is,” she agrees. “You’re still awake?”

“It was an accident.”

She hums with disbelief. “I’m sure. Cocoa?”

Naturally, Peter can’t possibly say no. Even if it _weren’t_ hot chocolate she were offering, he doubts the ability to refuse Pepper Potts anything exists within his genetic makeup. So he sits beside her at the peninsula and cradles the green Hulk shaped mug she claims is Tony’s absolute favorite. 

“You look very tired, Peter. Stressed.” 

Peter snorts into his cup. “When am I not stressed? 

“Well, it’s understandable given the circumstances.”

He swings his legs back and forth as they sit in companionable silence. Finally, he works up the courage to ask her about what’s been bugging him for a while now.

“Does it bother you? That I’m, y’know, living here now?”

“What? No. _God_ , no. If anything—and this’ll probably sound terrible and selfish—but I’m _glad_ you’re here. Obviously what happened with your aunt is terrible and I would never wish that on anyone, but we were never going to turn you away. Besides, you lighten the place up. _And_ you’re good for Tony.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

Peter absorbs that, trying to quell the strangely warm feeling that bubbles up inside when he really thinks about it. He bites his lip. 

“I’m worried about him.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s just... I read that they finally reached a resolution in the Accords debate.”

“They did,” Pepper says. “Is there a question in there somewhere?”

“The rogues are coming back, aren’t they? That’s why Natasha Romanoff keeps popping in and out like Kramer from Seinfeld but with less pizazz?” 

Pepper smiles. “They’ll be moving back into the compound upstate, yes.”

“And you and Tony?”

“Will continue to split our time between here and there.” Pepper sips her cocoa. “Does that answer your question?”

Peter shrugs. “ _Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club,_ I guess.” 

Pepper laughs again. “Go to bed, Peter. And do me a favour?”

“Yeah?”

“Stop worrying so much. We’ll be okay.”

“Right.” Peter nods. “Of course. Obviously.”

She takes both of the mugs to the sink, which is his dismissal. Peter, for whatever reason, feels sort of strange. There’s a rolling sensation in his stomach that just won’t abate, and even talking to the most level-headed person he’s ever met hasn’t helped any. 

But he ignores it. Gets ready for bed quickly and, as soon as his head hits the pillow, he’s out like a light. 

If only sleep were infinite.

* * *

Christmas sort of creeps up on Peter. 

One day it’s just regular sucky old December, and the next thing he knows the house is decked out in lights and tinsel, not to mention the _gigantic_ Christmas tree by the window. 

It’s all Pepper’s doing. Peter has a feeling of it were just him and Tony, TV dinners and a holiday movie is about as festive as they’d get. 

He’s not sure which one he’d prefer.

On one hand, he’s half Jewish. On the other, May hadn’t been and Peter had never minded so they just never celebrated Hanukkah. Usually they would just put up the little fake Christmas tree in the corner of the living room and decorate it with those cheesy handmade ornaments Peter had made in elementary school. May would try to cook, burn the roast, and end up ordering pizza.

Peter loved that. He wants that, more than anything in the whole world. He wants to laugh about how shitty May is in the kitchen and he wants to sit on the floor with her while _It’s A Wonderful Life_ plays and make fun of James Stewart’s voice. He wants to tell her how much he misses her, how sorry he is, how much he loves her.

So on Christmas Eve morning he just lays in bed for a long while, wrapped up in blankets. Pepper had bought a few more for him (they’d mysteriously appeared on his bed one day, so he assumes it must have been her), so he’s finally warm. 

Peter closes his eyes. He tries to picture May. One day he knows that the image of her will become hazy around the edges, less and less defined until she’s just a blur, just a collection of moments, a ghost. 

Like Ben.

Peter sighs. He shouldn’t mope. He spent almost an entire month moping and where had that gotten him? 

In the medbay. 

There is a quick knock on his door before it opens, and Pepper sticks her head inside. “Are you up?”

“Mmmphf.”

She laughs. “You wanna help me bake cookies?”

* * *

The funny thing about Tony Stark’s life is, it didn’t go the way it should have. 

If it _had_ , Tony would’ve probably dropped dead from a coke overdose at seventeen, or eighteen, or twenty. He would have lost in Afghanistan, would have lost to Obediah. He would never have built his first suit, never have become Iron Man, never become part of the Avengers.

Never ended up with a sixteen year old kid sitting cross legged on his living room floor, biting a pencil while he finishes his Calculus homework. 

Tony wanders over. “Stuck, Underoos?”

“What? Oh, no, I just… Polar coordinates. I’m not getting them.”

And that is just total bull. Tony had only asked to rile him up, but he goes along with it anyway. “Budge up for me. Polar coordinates, huh? Well, you know how with Cartesian coordinates you take x and y and you meet in the middle? Well, with _polar_ coordinates, you move out of the origin until you hit the point. Make sense?”

Peter nods. 

“Anything else?”

A pause. 

Peter shifts. 

“Just… could you stay? Pepper went to bed a while ago and I… I don’t know. I don’t wanna be alone on Christmas.”

“Hey, say no more.” Tony leans back and watches the kid work for a bit before pulling out his Tablet to review the Accords amendments for the millionth time. 

The next time he looks back, Peter is fast asleep: bent over with his face pressed against his textbook, back rising and falling lightly. 

Tony smirks. He grabs a blanket and throws it over the kid, and then… and then he has the strangest urge to run his hand through Peter’s hair. 

Tony ends up surrendering to it as with all things when it comes to this kid.

“Merry Christmas, Pete.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank u so much for reading! pls pls pls leave a comment and tell me what u thought!!


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